Dance Rehearsal: Middle Age
reunion
The late hour has raked the park of women
so the choreographer lights herself a tree and, drawing deeply,
pulls its leaves into her lungs. She can’t help but exhale
more dance, pollinate all this green with a progress
of bodies. She watches a couple talking. The woman
reaching to touch the man’s shirt, its bold stripes, the internal
combustion beneath are fascinating. The air syrups
around them and a woman walking by is caught
in their trade wind. Even their breathing
is tropical. The choreographer forgets her tree.
Wade through their honey again, she says
and the woman obliges, baptizing herself in their sap.
When she emerges, her arms move into the fourth year
of the cycle of her desire. The choreographer introduces
the woman to her shadow. Coax that part of yourself
into the move, she tells her. And the woman has no choice
but to sit down in the grass. Have I told you how alone
I’ve been? she asks. Shh, the choreographer says. Show me.
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